


Odd Hours

by SelanPike



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelanPike/pseuds/SelanPike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When people say that Metropolis Central doesn’t sleep, it’s only a half truth. It’s true that there are no times at which this city is ever truly asleep, but there are times when it isn’t really awake, either. At the odd hours of night, when the sun is just ready to creep over the horizon but hasn’t made its way there yet, the city exists in a delirious and drowsy state. It’s then that you can get your dirtiest of businesses done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odd Hours

When people say that Metropolis Central doesn’t sleep, it’s only a half truth. It’s true that there are no times at which this city is ever truly asleep, but there are times when it isn’t really awake, either. At the odd hours of night, when the sun is just ready to creep over the horizon but hasn’t made its way there yet, the city exists in a delirious and drowsy state. It’s then that you can get your dirtiest of businesses done, with the knowledge that even if someone happened upon you, they’d be unlikely to do much.

You take your time, then. You light a cigarette and heft yourself onto a crate. The docks are deserted this time of night, especially when there are no shipments coming in tomorrow. You already tossed the bodies into the river, and the currents are taking them far away, out to the desert where no one will ever find them. There’s still blood on the ground, but you’ll get to that.

A man’s gotta stop and enjoy the moment now and again.

You’re halfway through your cigarette when you hear footsteps approaching. They’re light steps, shuffling, cautious. A lesser man wouldn’t have been able to pick them up over the sound of water lapping at the docks. You’re no lesser man. You don’t let on that you’re listening. You keep smoking, watching the river, trying to decide whether to rip the poor asshole’s intestines out and hang him with them or whether to just burn him from the inside out.

The intruder enters your view, and you relax. Oh, it’s only Scout. You nod in greeting, blowing out a puff of smoke.

He looks at the puddle of blood, then at you. He looks irritated but then, when doesn’t he?

“Can I get a smoke?” he asks.

You produce a silver cigarette case from your coat and hand him one. He puts it in his mouth and you snap your fingers, lighting it. He takes a long drag.

“So who’s th’ unfortunate bastard this time?”

You shake your head. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

He grunts. He looks at the blood again. “Looks like more’n one. Maybe three, ‘m I right?”

“Completely lost me, darlin’.”

“See, it’s funny,” he says, motioning at the air and drawing a trail of smoke as he does so. “’cause I was trailin’ this drug ring, right. For weeks, was drivin’ me up th’ wall. ‘n I finally find a couple o’ bastards who was willin’ t’ talk, ‘n I show up at th’ meetin’ point ‘n none ‘f ‘em show.”

You smile a little to yourself, and hope he doesn’t notice in the darkness. “’sa real shame.”

“Was three ‘f ‘em,” Scout says. “Young guys, too. Real sad, coulda had a real life ahead ‘f ‘em.”

“’m sure they’ll turn up,” you say, grinning wider.

“I’m sure.” Scout spits on the ground, walking around the blood puddle. He looks out at the water, seeing the blood trail that leads there. “’f I went out t’ th’ desert ‘n searched th’ banks, maybe.”

“So gloomy,” you say. You take a drag. “What ‘f they jus’ got caught ‘n traffic?”

He glares at you. His eyes have all the fire of someone who’s too small to be taken seriously, of someone too weak to ever win, someone too powerless to make a difference. It’s beautiful, in a way. You appreciate the fact that he never gives up, despite the futility of it all.

“’m sure,” he says at last. “Jus’ caught up ‘n th’ four AM rush.”

“Happens all th’ time,” you say.

“They’ll jus’ show up ‘t my place later all bright ‘n chipper ‘n ready t’ rat ya’ out.”

You nod. “I don’ doubt it.”

You see him clench his fists. He wants to wring your neck. He wants it so bad, and he knows he can’t because you could kill him in an instant if he ever gave you reason to.

“Well, I guess they ain’t here,” he grumbles.

“Sorry t’ disappoint.”

He looks out at the water, as though wishing something would climb out of it. “I’ll see ya’ around, then.”

You continue to smile, ashing your cigarette on the ground. “I look forward t’ it.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, bites down on his cigarette to keep from screaming, and turns around. He takes a few steps away before looking back at you.

“Oh, ‘n Scoff?”

“Hm?”

“Don’ get cocky.”

You tip your hat and give him the brightest grin you can muster. “I’ll remain ‘s cocky ‘s I ever was.”

He grunts and turns away. He leaves, his shuffling footsteps fading away until only the sound of the river remains. You finish your cigarette. The sun’s beginning to peak over the horizon now, a streak of pink at the edge of the sky, surrounded by the black of the fading night.

You should probably do something about this blood.


End file.
